Chapter Text
Prompts used: “This is your fault by the way” and “I could beat you up, you know that right?”
(rating: mature, warning for slurs)
Johnny crosses his arms over his chest and glares at Daniel LaRusso in the dim lamp light. “This is your fault, by the way.”
“What? How is this my fault? You’re the one who spun the bottle, asshole,” LaRusso fumes, shaking his finger at Johnny from the other side of the tiny closet in Bobby’s basement.
“Yeah. Well.” Johnny swipes at his hair where it’s fallen over his eyes, his cheeks flushing under LaRusso’s accusatory stare. “No one asked you to play.”
“So? It’s a free country.”
“You just wanted a chance to spend seven minutes in heaven with Ali,” Johnny accuses.
LaRusso leans back and almost falls into a row of Mrs. Brown’s cocktail dresses, flailing his arms like a total dweeb. He clears his throat and stares at Johnny like he’s an idiot.
“Duh? Who wouldn’t?”
Johnny doesn’t want to admit that LaRusso has a point, so he fixes his eyes on the faded Garfield pin on Bobby’s old school bag that’s hanging from a hook by the door and tries to suffer through the rest of their shared ordeal.
Stupid LaRusso. What the hell does Ali even see in the guy?
He’s skinny like a rake and a whole head shorter than Johnny. And so obnoxious, strutting into the party with Ali and her friends like some tiny Casanova.
Johnny was tempted to punch his lights out the moment he showed up, and he probably would have, had it not been for Bobby breathing down his neck to cool it, Johnny, man, just cool it.
LaRusso taps the sole of his ratty sneaker against the floor and blows out a loud sigh. “Can’t believe I’m stuck in a closet with Johnny Lawrence…”
“What was that?” Johnny snaps, nailing his gaze back on LaRusso. “You think I’m enjoying this?”
“Who the hell knows what you enjoy,” LaRusso mutters under his breath.
Johnny curls his hand into a fist and holds it up in front of LaRusso’s nose. “I could beat you up, you know that right?”
His threat doesn’t earn him the reaction he was aiming for, because LaRusso tilts his chin and laughs in Johnny’s face, the arch of his brows as smug as his smile.
“Oh yeah? You sure about that?”
Johnny closes the small gap between them and crowds LaRusso against the wall, balling his hand around the front of his threadbare t-shirt. “This isn’t a dojo, punk.”
LaRusso blinks up at him, his chest falling and rising under Johnny’s fist as he pants his punch-sweet breath into his face. They stare at each other, way too close to be even remotely comfortable, and the loud thump of music outside of the closet fades into a buzz of white noise as Johnny’s eyes are drawn to LaRusso’s parted mouth.
It’s stained red from the fruit punch they’re serving in the kitchen upstairs. Almost like a girl’s mouth, full and pouty. Johnny noticed it that night on the beach, when LaRusso inserted himself into Johnny’s life, interrupting his conversation with Ali like some knight in shining armor. And he’s noticing it now, trapped in a dusty closet, mere inches away from it.
What the hell is wrong with him?
LaRusso narrows his eyes, his tongue poking out between the seam of his lips. Johnny tries to look away, but he’s pretty sure he’s been caught. He lets go of LaRusso’s shirt and pulls away, the musky scent of their sweat and aftershave making his head spin like he’s downed a whole keg.
It takes three panicked heartbeats for LaRusso to close the gap between them and press his mouth against Johnny’s. Hot and soft and so terrifying that Johnny wrenches himself away from the kiss.
“W-what the fuck, LaRusso?”
LaRusso gapes at him, the flush draining from his cheeks as he shakes his head like one of those bobbleheads Johnny used to have on his desk in third grade. He tries to slip away, but Johnny grabs him by the sleeve of his shirt and drags him back, knocking their mouths together.
“Mmmph!” LaRusso’s hands flap uselessly at his sides before landing on Johnny’s shoulders. He blows out a warm puff of air through his nose and parts his lips, letting Johnny lick into his mouth.
And Johnny’s pretty sure he’s having one of those out-of-body experiences, because there’s no way he’s making out with Daniel LaRusso and getting hard from it.
Again, what the fuck?
He shoves his leg between LaRusso’s thighs and feels slightly less freaked out when he discovers that the little shit is just as hard. And he knows their seven minutes have to be almost up, but he yanks LaRusso closer by his hips and grinds into him, hard and so fast that it’s bordering on the edge of uncomfortable.
LaRusso clings to Johnny’s shoulders and pants into his mouth as they rut against each other, the cacophony of laughter and drunken hollering drowning out under the sound of Daniel’s reedy moans and Johnny’s heavy grunting.
“Fuck, fuck, Johnny, I’m gonna come,” LaRusso whines, the soles of his sneakers skidding against the floor as he thrusts his hips into the fold of Johnny’s thigh and hip.
Johnny doesn’t want to admit it but he’s just as close. He sinks his fingers into the coarse tufts of LaRusso’s hair and blows his load just as someone knocks on the door.
LaRusso startles so hard that he lurches against Johnny’s chest, fisting the sleeves of his polo like he’s afraid that Johnny’s gonna leave him with blue balls.
“Come on, you guys, your seven minutes are up,” Ali calls from the other side of the door. “You’d better not have killed each other in there.”
LaRusso grinds against Johnny’s thigh, his brows knotting in frustration.
“Come on, LaRusso. Blow your fucking load,” Johnny hisses. He reaches down to palm LaRusso through his jeans and feels him pulse against the heel of his hand two seconds later.
“Oh—oh fuck.”
Johnny pulls away the moment LaRusso is done. He runs his fingers through his hair and tugs the hem of his shirt from his jeans in an attempt to cover the wet stain on his crotch.
The next knock on the door comes from Dutch, loud and demanding. “Come on, man, there are people out here who actually wanna make out in there.”
Johnny throws LaRusso a quick glance through his bangs. He wants to make a threat, tell him to keep his faggy little mouth shut and let him know that this is never happening again.
He does neither of those things, too shaken by the sight of LaRusso’s kiss-swollen mouth and the fucked out glaze in his pretty brown eyes.
“Fucking Christ…” Johnny runs his fingers through his hair one more time and blows out a stuttering breath as he reaches for the door handle and rushes out of the closet.